The Pen
la fierté du silence
My hours are falling heavier and longer
Shards of empty pots remain scattered about
I have forgotten where to find the sacred ground
And the weightlessness of it vexes me needlessly
My father said he had missed me, until he died
Now he visits from time to time
A hole in the shadow on the barren wall
The living don't look back at me anymore
All I can hear now is the heartless speaking
Their wretchedness a gainful virtue
And my friend who suddenly became the ocean
Just yesterday we were dropping stones
into the old well off the path
Casting dry cattails like smoke bombs
Years ago he stranded me here, by his own hand
Ever since I have haunted my own skin
My head filled with unkempt sleep
Taking unconvincingly to glass bottles
But whisky is a prop that doesn't fit
As are the unfinished turns of the pen
All those decrepit men at the gate
Those bearish, surly Bukoswski wannabes
Like the dust of deserts suffocating fertile fields
And of the women at my door, I remember you
Sirens and asphalt, beautiful anvils with wings
& how we would read other's hearts like braille
The hands which cupped your face
Amidst our fused voices, persisting
We remember things we don't want to know
The sun-showers rinse our tongues of regret
Night remains a dark cloud full of voices
Some summers they will drop like flies
And we will leave with nothing
but the pride of silence
About the Creator
Timothy James Lane
Sea Ghost
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